I have this recurring nightmare:Flailing pigeon, her broken feetFrozen solid to the freezing pavement.I turn away as if I do not see.I have this childhood memoryOf my old man screaming from the driver's seatTo turn away from an unfolding horror,But he could not undo what I had seen.We never spoke of it again.Two more hapless citizens of

The new post-traumatic stress worldwide disorder.A stockholm syndrome fifth estate,Desperate to batten down the mounting horrorsAnd shuffle on in a global lotus gait.

Content to marinate in the plasma glow of theHome entertainment prisons weCommune before like dime-store shrines.Are these but votive lives?It's a strangled, twisted trussThat shores-up each of us.Anything to dull the painOf a splintered lotus gait.

As for me a filigree of psychic police tapeTends to cordon-off the darker scenes.But the wandering mind stumbles through itAnd relives them all eventually.

Pries open wide your eyes and shines a painful lightOn the guilt, the fear, the shame.The courage never cameFrom the plasma glow of theHome entertainment prisons weCling to like dime-store shrines.Are these but votive lives?Conservative at heart.A conformist from the start.A stockholm syndrome fifth estate.A staggering lotus gait.It's a strangled, twisted trussThat shores-up each of us.Anything to dull the painOf a self-inflicted, crippling lotus gait.